paper reporter wrote his notes rapidly, one ear cocked so that he would not miss a word of what was said.
Twice Commissioner Hunter cleared his throat, but did not speak. His gaze kept running over the sea of faces turned anxiously toward him. At last:
"Young man, may I ask your name?"
"George Praska, sir."
"I want to congratulate you on the delegation that has accompanied you, and I want to congratulate the high school for possessing such a fine student body. At this moment, I can make no binding promises. We will have to look into the matter. But I will pledge you that your protest will receive the immediate attention of my department and, if possible, what you ask will be done. Is that satisfactory?"
Praska turned to the school. "Is it?"
A roar of approval was their answer.
And then they began to move toward the stairs, and the Commissioner began to shake hands with all those whom he could reach. Praska, the nearest to him, was the last to reach the outdoors. A photographer was on the sidewalk focusing a camera, and the reporter, standing beside him, was crying, "Just a moment, please. We won't detain you but a moment." Then the shutter
